


Ode to Joy

by thewaynecondition



Category: Warrior (2011)
Genre: #tessknows, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Smut, backstory for frank since he doesnt really get one, fight descriptions, i dont consider it GRAPHIC so i didnt use an archive warning, man secs yall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-18
Updated: 2015-12-18
Packaged: 2018-05-07 09:56:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5452496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewaynecondition/pseuds/thewaynecondition
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Somebody (my sister) allowed me to watch Warrior again two days ago and this happened. It's been two years since my last fic for this pairing which is probably why I spewed so much. It takes place during the montage. Enjoy my loves!</p>
    </blockquote>





	Ode to Joy

**Author's Note:**

> Somebody (my sister) allowed me to watch Warrior again two days ago and this happened. It's been two years since my last fic for this pairing which is probably why I spewed so much. It takes place during the montage. Enjoy my loves!

Frank was already standing in the middle of the ring when Brendan walked into the gym that night, his hands taped up with a pair of thin red gloves covering his knuckles. Brendan waited in the doorway and watched his 'coach' shadow box to a song that was _decidedly_ not Beethoven. It was rap, and the beat was steady, carrying the words and Frank's moves.

All Brendan knew was that Frank could definitely move. Watching him was like watching a segment on ESPN about the _art_ of fighting. The ones where they always compared boxers to ballerinas as though drawing blood was the same as landing a graceful _Plié_. Looking at Frank made Brendan want to reconsider. The lines his body made as he punched were straight and clean, each muscle obeying his mind, the true instrument. His feet barely touched the mat as he changed his stances over and over and aimed arching kicks at his invisible opponents head. In rhythm, Frank dropped his body to the mat to simulate a ground and pound and as he popped back up, he _struck_.

Only his toes scraped the mat, his body and fist flew and Brendan knew he either wanted to learn that move, or stay out of reach of it.

It had been a long time since Brendan last saw Frank in action--real action. And for the life of him, he couldn't remember why. In his mind, one day Frank was a fighter and the next he wasn't. Calling him Coach had started as a joke between them, because Brendan never obeyed him anyway, win or lose. Now he meant it down to his core.

Eventually, Frank spotted him through dark lashes dripping sweat and he grinned.

Frank jogged to the corner of the ring, snapped up the speaker remote and turned off his music. "Hey. My fault. How long you been standing there?"

"Long enough."

"Don't get any ideas."

"What song was that?"

Now Frank was smiling. "I said, don't get any ideas."

Brendan heard the speaker cut back on and _Ode to Joy_ poured out, as clean and calming as always. He laughed and set his gym bag on the floor. Crouching, he pulled out his tape and gloves, slowly working them on until Frank's shadow came and loomed over him.

He looked up and Frank peered down, his scar giving a wink as he smiled.

Before Brendan left home that night he looked in on Emily and Rosie, sleeping and peaceful. Then from a front porch neither of them knew if they would ever see again, he kissed Tess goodbye. His days began and ended with his girls. Yet somehow, after years of grading papers and cleaning up finger paint, life had seen fit to slide Frank Campana back into the middle again.

"What?" Frank asked, dark eyes appraising, evaluating every inch of Brendan like a surgical knife.

"Trying to remember the last time I've seen you fight."

"You will tonight."

"We sparring?"

Frank let go of the rope and gestured to the gym. "See anybody else?"

It was just the two of them. For the passed week Brendan had spent every waking moment badgering Frank about training him in the evenings. His next smoker's fight was in three days, in Pottstown. If he won, he'd claim the largest purse in the city at three grand. Brendan needed personal time with Frank, he needed to win and that went without saying, so Frank agreed--with permission from Tess.

"Come on," Frank reached down and cuffed the back of his head gently. He did a light jog around the perimeter of the ring, jabbing the air as he went.

Brendan climbed up and ducked under the white rope. Once inside, he rolled his shoulders; he breathed in the change in atmosphere he could always, always feel when he entered the ring. Frank found the center and held out a glove toward him. Brendan tapped it with his knuckles and they began.

" _Ode to Joy_ is your song. It ain't mine," Frank said as they circled one another. He faked a punch and Brendan dodged left. Quick as lightning, Frank's right leg came up and caught him in the side. "Which song you think I'm hearing right now?"

"First one," Brendan answered backing out of Frank's space. Frank followed.

"That's right. In the ring, you gotta push the fight to your tempo. Make the other guy do your dance. Hurt him if he tries to go off beat. _Ode to Joy_ is your song. _Hail Mary_ is mine."

And that was the last of Frank's instruction before he proceeded to whoop Brendan's ass. Maybe the lesson was in blocking because for the first few minutes he couldn't hear a single damn note of Beethoven over Frank's _hiss_. Every time Frank threw a punch there was that hiss quickly followed by the venom sting of knuckles against his jaw.

Brendan got his hands up because Coach would want him to ( the coach that wasn’t using him as a body bag ). He found the song and listened to it. Flow--three jabs to the body to back Frank off of him. Flourish--ducking under Frank's answering right cross in order to execute a clean take down.

Frank actually laughed. Outright laughed as he spread his legs wide to stay upright. They slid from the center of the ring all the way to a far corner and Frank still didn't go down. He bent instead, pressed a hand to Brendan's shoulders and held him down while he unleashed knee after knee into his sternum. Either Brendan would get out or he'd break a rib before the smoker's fight.

Brendan blocked the third knee, punched Frank in the kidney so he'd bend just a little more then fired an uppercut into that perfect jaw. Frank Campana never suffered a fighter with a glass chin. He was lucky his own face held up.

Frank's head snapped back and blood spattered the mirror ten feet behind them. He let Brendan go for just long enough that Brendan was able to get his arms around Frank's waist, twist him away from the ropes, and slam him down in the center.

Brendan had to fight. It was the fastest way to make money, and counting down ninety days till foreclosure was beginning to feel like watching his life slip through an hourglass whose center was six inches wide. He had to fight because, in all of the panic and worry, listening to Frank for once, listening to the Beethoven, actually calmed his mind.

He scrambled over Frank, but Frank was just so fucking _fast_ , he was rolling to his feet by the time Brendan got set to take him. Again, Frank loomed over him but this time there was no affection in his gaze. Frank lifted his leg into one of those beautiful long arching kicks and slammed it down onto Brendan's chest, keeping him pinned to the mat. Brendan's breath vacated his body like an exorcised spirit and his vision bloomed dark flowers around the edges. The leg rose up again and Brendan waited for it.

 _Crack_. The flat of Frank's foot found Brendan's chest. He took the blow in order to get his hands on Frank's ankle and roll like a croc. Either Frank followed the direction of his leg or risk breaking an ankle. Frank dropped down and rained punches into Brandon's face but he wouldn't let up.

Brendan got Frank around the calf and the rest of the move was done with blinding speed.

His tempo not Frank's, a rise in the symphony.

Brendan's eyes were blown, the remaining blue around his pupil glacial and sharp. He wrapped his legs around Frank's upper thigh and sank his hips into position. Frank's leg, trapped between Brendan's, turned inward as he tried to escape; it was a mistake Frank knew not to make but Brendan couldn't see the panic on his face. Franks knee rested against Brendan's pelvis and all it would take to pop the joint from his socket was a push.

Brendan watched his hands and feet move on a separate plane where his mind was calculating, memorizing. He took a hold of the sole of Frank's foot and pulled it toward his chest while using his hips to force his knee in the opposite direction. He barely held it for five seconds before he felt Frank's hand tapping out a plea for freedom against his lower back.

"Bren. Bren, let go. Let go!"

As far as Brendan was concerned, Frank had gone straight from fighter to coach. Isn't that was he was thinking at the beginning of the night? But it wasn't true.

He'd met Frank in this ring before the hype, before everyone else got clued in on how good Coach Campana really was, before he started turning men like Marco Santos into champions. Whenever he thought of Frank, Brendan pictured him here, with his hands on the ropes and a confident smile on his face.

Frank had gone from fighter to coach but it wasn't a straight path. And as his panic reached Brendan's ears, Brendan finally remembered the months in between when Sports Center wouldn’t play anything else but the video of Frank getting his knee rolled completely out of the socket by another guy whose name he couldn’t remember. Career ending. People didn’t ever expect him to walk again let alone without a limp...

Brendan let go, cursing as he did. He rolled over, instantly filled with contrition when he saw the way Frank was grimacing and clutching at his joint.

"Frank. Shit, I'm so sorry. I don't know what I was thinking--"

"You were thinking about how to win. And you did it."

"Your leg man. I'm an idiot."

"Brendan," Frank ducked his head, always trying to catch those eyes as they darted around in worry, "you did what I taught you. You go for your opponents' weaknesses and you make them pay for having one in the first place."

Brendan took a breath and nodded. He sat on the mat and reached for Frank's leg again, drawing it slowly over his lap and pressing tentative fingers around his knee. "Still hurt?"

"Everyday."

"I forgot."

"Jesus," Frank said giving him a light jab in the chest directly over his heart, "We're lucky your weakness is covered up."

Brendan gave him a smile and slid his hand just a little higher up his leg. He squeezed his thigh and peeked at him from beneath his lashes. "Do you need ice?"

"Shut up already!" Frank laughed. "You want me sending you back to Tess in one piece or a few?"

"Just one."

"Just one. Alright."

A pause filled the gym like the calm breath of a summer's day. It would have been out of place in this room among any other men. Blood was still drying on the mirror and mat. It crusted around Frank's nostril. Brendan's side was turning such a lovely shade of purple he could imagine Rosie trying to achieve the same hue with her face paint. Only Frank and the family could ever help Brendan find the beauty in causing another man pain after so many years of only doing it for Paddy's attention.

Brendan's thoughts were interrupted when he felt Frank's lips warm his shoulder.

"Hey."

"I lost you for a second," Frank whispered so as not to disturb the moment further.

"You'll never lose me. Even when I quit and start teaching physics."

They laughed.

"I always hated physics."

"Course you did," Brendan didn’t believe him for a second. He took Frank's other thigh in his hand and pulled him carefully up into his lap. Frank went without much fuss keeping his legs extended straight behind Brendan's back. He looked down into those heartbreaking blue eyes and brushed blood off of Brendan's cheek. No one that sexy had any right to look so innocent as well, but Brendan accomplished it and it made Frank crazy.

"I've told Tess about us, you know."

"--Are you kidding me right now? You pulling my leg?"

"No I'm not pulling your leg."

Frank's face dropped so hard it nearly slipped off the bone. "What, are you insane? She already hates me because of all the fighting. Now you tell her I've got a hand down your pants too."

"We don't have secrets, man," he explained while rubbing Frank's lower back, " I told her the day it happened."

Frank paused. He looked over Brendan's head and did a little math. "How old is Emily?"

"Six."

"Bren, that was _eight_ years ago! You told your wife about us eight years ago and you're only just now telling _me_ she knows? You have any idea how guilty I've been feeling?"

"She doesn't hate you. She knows they come first. Her and the girls. For _both_ of us. When I told her, she asked me if she was my 'beard' and I so genuinely didn't know _what that was_ that she started laughing. She knows I wasn't just hooking up with you on the side. I _love_ you. The whole time you've been with me you've been trying to save our family not get in the middle. She doesn't hate you," Brendan kissed Frank's cheek, his jaw, his nose. "I promise. But she really wishes you would come to dinner one of the million times she's asked you."

"I thought 'you're invited to dinner' was code for 'when you get here I'll stab you."

Brendan tried really hard not to laugh. His lip trembled furiously, "It's not code."

" _Jeeeessus_ , Brendan. I could kill you."

"You almost did."

Brendan reached up and took hold of the point of Frank's chin and drew him down into a kiss. He was stubborn for a moment, but eventually Frank melted into him with the same ease in which they'd picked up the rest of their old routine. With the arm still around Frank's back, Brendan stabilized them and rolled him to the mat. Frank barely seemed to notice. A clean three hundred pounds between the two of them and the mat had shown no signs of give. Frank prefered that to soft mattresses that sank when he arched into Brendan. It forced his shirt and shorts to scrape at the sensitive (and bruised) skin along his shoulders and ass, more so when Brendan rocked down, eager to give all of himself. Frank worried sometimes that Brendan gave too much. He worried more that he did it out of a sense of obligation instead of love.

But his lips moved against Frank's with unspeakable gentleness and once his back was laid flat, Frank's legs wrapped around Brendan's calves to keep him close. Frank's fingers dug into Brendan's lower back as best as he could with gloves on, encouraging the roll of his hips. He moaned when the movement informed them both of the half hard erections they'd been stowing away during the fight. Adrenaline did crazy things to the human body but both men were grateful as they gasped into each other's mouths and reveled in the feel of warm skin sliding in sweat against loose sports fabric.

Brendan broke the kiss to tug off his gloves with his teeth. With them on, his hands felt two sizes too big when they tried to push up Frank's shirt and wrap his fingers around his sides. Brendan never wanted to touch Frank with clumsy hands. He was a precision fighter after all.

He looked down at Frank and grinned when his digits were free. Affectionately, he pushed Frank's sweat-stuck hair from his forehead then reached down and hooked his fingertips beneath his shirt.

"You don't need to do all of that, baby."

Brendan ignored him in favor of rucking up the tight Under Armor anyway and mouthing at Frank's chest.

"Come on, _ah_ , we're too sweaty for all that, Bren," he breathed, giving Brendan's shoulder a half-assed push.

"I want to suck you," Brendan murmured kissing down his sternum and nuzzling Frank's navel. He nipped the flushed ring of skin and dipped his tongue deep inside.

"Oh _fuck_." His cock twitched and Frank almost gave in right there. Almost. "Brendan, I probably smell like every guy in the gym. Come on."

Brendan rested his head on Frank's hip and looked up at him. His eyes just a little wider, his bow curved mouth parted and pink.

"Don't give me the face. Get back up here. C'mere." Frank was not immune to the face but it wasn't fair and Coach Campana liked to believe he led a clean outfit. He wrapped one arm around Brendan's shoulders as he crawled over him again and dragged Brendan down for a kiss as he used his free hand to push their shorts down. Frank's own hands were still tightly wrapped, so clutching them both between his strong fingers was out of the question but he could keep Brendan in place. He put his hand over Brendan's wet cockhead and ran his thumb through the precum as he rocked up against him.

" _Mm._ "

"Yeah?"

" _Yeah._ "

Humping like this reminded Brendan of high school days with Tess, how she'd pull up her skirt behind the bleachers after one of his wrestling matches and let him rock against her panties. In his memories they were white, always white, with lace around the hem.

Pink pushed against pink as he kissed Frank, and pulled his hair, shivering each time their glands nestled a little more firmly together. Brendan almost laughed when he realized, even like this Frank kept pace until neither of them could take anymore.

Brendan licked his palm and reached between them with his free hand, jerking them till he could feel every muscle in his body tense for a strike. He watched Frank's face contort beneath him, listened to him whisper his name, calm and sweet like an Ode to the filthier definitions of Joy--they groaned as they shot together, making a mess of Coach's skin.

"I love you too," Frank answered quietly after they'd both caught their breath laid out side by side in the center of the ring. "And um, you can tell Tess, I'll come by for dinner after you win Pottstown. If she'll still have me, after eight fucking years."

"You ever gonna let that go?"

"Not on your life, Conlon."

"Damn. How can I make it right?"

"Ice my knee. I lied, it's fucking screaming."

**Author's Note:**

> Song Frank is Listening to: hail mary by tupac shakur


End file.
